Burnt Offerings - Laurell K. Hamilton [133]
I eased down my window and flashed my ID. It was a little plastic clip-on card and looked official, but it wasn’t a badge. Sometimes the uniforms would let me through, and sometimes they had to go ask permission. Brewster’s Law was going around Washington and would give vamp executioners what amounted to federal marshal status. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It takes a hell of a lot more to make a cop than just a badge, but for me personally I’d love to have had a badge to flash.
“Anita Blake, Larry Kirkland, to see Sergeant Storr.”
The officer frowned at the ID. “I’ll have to clear this with someone.”
I sighed. “Fine, we’ll wait here.”
The uniform went off in search of Dolph, and we waited.
“You used to argue with them,” Larry said.
I shrugged. “They’re just doing their job.”
“Since when has that stopped you from bitching?”
I looked at him. He was smiling, which saved him from the scathing comeback I had ready. Besides, it was nice to see him smiling about anything right now. “So I’m mellowing—a little. So what?”
The smile widened to a grin, a shit-eating grin, my uncle would have called it. It was like the next thing out of his mouth was almost too funny to say. I was betting I wouldn’t think it was funny at all.
“Is it being in love with Jean-Claude that’s mellowed you or the regular sex?”
I smiled sweetly. “Speaking of regular sex, how is Detective Tammy?”
He blushed first. I was happy.
The uniform was walking down the wet street towards us with Detective Tammy Reynolds in tow. Oh, life was good.
“Well, if it isn’t your little sugarplum now,” I said.
Larry saw her then. The red flush brightened to something the color of raw flame, redder than his hair. His blue eyes were a little bulgy with the effort to breathe. The soot had been wiped away, which saved his face from looking like a reddish bruise. “You won’t say anything, will you, Anita? Tammy doesn’t like to be teased.”
“Who does?” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking very fast before they could get to us. “I apologize. It will never happen again. Please do not embarrass me in front of Tammy.”
“Would I do that to you?”
“In a hot second,” he said. “Please don’t.”
They were almost at the car. “Don’t pull my leg and I won’t pull yours,” I whispered.
“Deal,” he said.
I eased down the window, smiling. “Detective Reynolds, how good to see you.”
Reynolds frowned because I was seldom glad to see her. She was a witch and the first police detective ever with preternatural abilities beyond psychic gifts. But she was young, bright, shiny, and tried just a little too hard to be my friend. She was just sooo fascinated with the fact that I raised the dead. She wanted to know all about it. I’d never had a witch make me feel like such a damned freak. Most witches were nice understanding souls. Perhaps it was the fact that Reynolds was a Christian witch, a member of the Followers of the Way. A sect going back to the Gnostics, who embraced almost all magical ability. They were all but wiped out during the Inquisition due to the fact that their beliefs don’t allow them to hide their light under a bushel, but they survived. Fanatics have a way of doing that.
Reynolds was tall, slender, with straight brown hair falling around her shoulders, and eyes that I would have said were hazel but she called green. Greyish-green with a large circle of pale brown around the pupil. Cats have green eyes. Most people don’t. She’d tried to be my friend, and when I wouldn’t tell her about raising the dead, she’d turned to Larry. He’d been reluctant at first for the same reasons I was, but she hadn’t offered me sex. It pushed Larry over the edge and into her arms.
I’d have complained about his choice of sweeties if I’d any moral high ground to stand on. It wasn’t the witch part that bothered me or the cop. It was the religious-fanatic part. But when you share the sheets with the walking dead, you don’t